


Force of Nature

by Everlind



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the answer's right in front of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force of Nature

**Force of Nature**

Déjà-vu doesn't even begin to describe it.

Here they are again, the Quarterfinals of the Nationals, against Seigaku. Score? 2-1, Seigaku. Next match has riding everything on it. _Their_ match, in the doubles one slot.

It's pouring, merciless, and Shishido-san and he are standing on their court, with no opponents to face.

Again.

Three years later.

"You've gotta be kidding," Shishido-san growls, angry and frustrated.

The loudspeakers echo hollowly: _"Please excuse me, Seishun Gakuen vs. Hyotei Gakuen's next match will be temporarily postponed due to the rain."_

"Not again," Ohtori sighs.

"OI! It's just some water, you damn cowards!" Shishido yells, nearly thrumming with pent up energy.

From the sidelines, Seigaku barely reacts as they're starting to pack their gear.

"Don't mind, Shishido-san," Ohtori says, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder.

 _We'll beat them tomorrow,_ he responds with his eyes to his partners indigent glare.

Shishido goes "Che," and yanks off his cap. Rain flies in all directions. "This is lame."

They leave courts in a loose knit group, but unlike last time, they only feel the threat of defeat looming over them. One more loss, and it is over. Forever. After this, there's no more Nationals. Ever.

Atobe wants to win, more than anything else, but he's the captain. And despite Shishido's imaginative complaints about him, he's a _good_ captain. He doesn't snarls and bite at the two of them, doesn't remind them that they _need_ to win tomorrow.

Of course, there's also Mukahi, who has to say loudly, "We're doomed. Those two can't even pull of synchro after all these damn years and they're facing the Demolition Pair tomorrow."

The Demolition Pair used to be the 'Dream' pair; Kikumaru and Fuji. But ever since Oishi left and Seigaku frantically tried to recreate another solid doubles one combination, the Dream Pair transformed into the Demolition Pair, because of their ability to level each opponent they come up against with the ground in no time. They don't posses the magic the Golden Pair had, but both Kikumaru and Fuji are downright frightening singles players in their own right. Unfortunately they posses enough connection to also create a solid enough doubles base, which, backed up with their outrageous moves, makes them the most feared team on the circuit.

Atobe flinches.

Shishido bristles, teeth bared.

Gakuto gets knocked over the back of the head by Hiyohsi.

"Lets go home," Kabaji murmurs to Atobe, taking his elbow and leading him away.

Ohtori has hold of the back of Shishido's shirt, just in case, as they watch the rest of the team disperse. The rain comes in sheets, creating a blank mirror of the courts in mere minutes. Jiroh is the only one to go off with a thumbs up and a bright grin. When his blond head disappears around a corner, Ohtori lets go of his partner.

Shishido sighs, runs a hand through his soaked hair. They look at each other.

Synchro.

"… I guess we'd better start practicing," Shishido says.

Ohtori nods.

Rain or no rain, they have to give it everything.

***

The rain won't let up. It keeps coming, sluicing down their bodies. They must've been on the courts for hours now. Ohtori's fingers are wrinkled so bad they've gone numb and yet remain ridiculously sensitive, making it so that they throb from clutching his racket so tightly and yet somehow he can't really _feel_ the tape against his palm anymore.

On the other side of the courts is Shishido-san, as drenched as him, as frustrated as him, as tired as him.

He doesn't need to even so much as look at Shishido to know he's asking himself the same questions Ohtori feels rattling around in his skull.

Why can't they achieve synchro?

What is it that they lack?

Their doubles is flawless. Ohtori knows this. They move like one, think like one, play like one, breathe like one. And despite that, they aren't. After three years of being the closest of friends, after three years of playing doubles with each other, why can't they achieve what Seigaku's Golden Pair once did?

Ohtori doesn't think they are doing anything _wrong_. More like there's something they _aren't_ doing.

There's no doubt, even now: their doubles is solid, like steel.

But the question's been there for, well, three years actually. They've never needed synchro, the two of them are just that good. And yet. Why the Golden Pair and not them?

Shishido's uniform is plastered to him. His hair is flattened to his skull, his eyes huge and burning. He cocks his head up, beckoning. _Bring it, Choutarou._

And isn't it sort of sad that despite the crisis at hand, the absolute severity of the situation, _the Nationals_ , that Shishido-san looking at him like that, is making him hard and heavy in his shorts, clouding his focus? Because that's what that arrogant quirk of the lips does to him.

"Choutarou?" Shishido's voice is nearly washed away in the downpour of rain.

"Ah, sorry, Shishido-san," Ohtori mutters, forcing himself to bounce the ball. It's heavy with rain and doesn't really rebound correctly any more.

Ohtori serves.

Shishido returns it.

Ohtori volleys.

Shishido makes it a backhand, deep and low into his court.

Back and forth.

It's flawless, like a well practiced dance. Shishido has always been noisy, grunting into his shots, little nonsense noises, tennis noises, but his voice is pitted low and gritty, full of gravel and fire and Ohtori can't help but wonder what it would take to add something and smoother and thicker to those noises. To make Shishido utter the same sort of nonsense, but fire and honey then, as wild and free, but less angry and more pleased. Aroused. Needy.

The ball smacks into his court, wet and heavy and deathly accurate, barely a handspan next to his left foot.

Ohtori startles, and then flushes guiltily.

"Choutarou…" Shishido murmurs and comes up to the net.

The wind howls across the courts and the net between them creaks ominously. Water drops pellet his body, sharp and cold. Ohtori can feel his drenched hair flapping widely about his head, his wet shirt lifting clear from his cold skin.

"Sorry, Shishido-san," he says, walking up to the net with dragging steps. He's such a loser. "I'm sorry, I don't-"

His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in surprise when Shishido reaches up, flicks the rain from the tip of his nose. "Don't worry about it," he says, smiling tiredly. "What do you think? Formations again?"

Ohtori nods, exhausted. Whatever it takes, even if they have to play all night.

"Alright," Shishido says, "how about-"

Lightening splits the sky, harsh and blinding, followed by a deafening crack of thunder.

Both of them clap their hands over their ears. Their eyes meet, shocked, just as the wind picks up, shrieks through the branches of the trees.

Not even the both of them are as die-hard to keep on playing when it looks like there's a small typhoon raging around them. And even if they were, they ball would fly clear off anyway.

They run for it.

Shishido is yelling "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking damn," as they go and Ohtori couldn't agree more.

Again the lightning arches overhead, right above them, crawling like a mad, disfigured serpent through the air, thunder booming in its wake.

They need to take cover and _fast_.

For long, too long, they sprint through the dubious safety the trees offer them, the storm only building and building, genuinely dangerous, all around them. Then Ohtori gets his bearings, grabs Shishido's hand and bodily yanks him through some bushes, taking a shortcut. Shishido doesn't question him, just winds their fingers together, holding on.

They burst out onto the street and for a moment Ohtori is disoriented, because the rain comes so fast and thick he can barely see an arms's length in front of him.

"There-" Shishido exclaims, and tugs at his hand.

The shelter is an oasis in the middle of madness. Both of them run towards its safety, Shishido now leading. As they stumble to a halt under the awning, lighting flashes again and the thunder that follows rattles the very glass of the shelter.

"Fuck," Shishido gasps, "Fuck." He leans against window and sinks down towards the ground, leaving a wet, dripping trail against the glazed surface.

Ohtori leans on his knees, rivulets of water streaming down his legs, from his hair, his clothes, his face, everywhere. For the longest time the rushing blood and lightheadedness make his vision hazed and it takes a while for his eyes to focus. When they do he can see his legs, the muscles in his thighs trembling, water and mud mingling in clumps against his calves, blood streaking down his shins from where the branches slapped against them.

Shishido isn't off any better. He sits slumped on the ground, alternately sucking in shrieking gasps and shuddering as the cold creeps in. It's not healthy to sit on the ground like that, not after the sheer heat of the day, not after all the tennis they played and certainly not after their dash for safety. There's one particular gash along his upper tight that wells blood in a bright ooze.

"Your leg," Ohtori breathes.

"It's fine," Shishido mutters. "Just a scratch."

Ignoring the muttering, Ohtori trips over, crouches before him. It's deep, but clean. He touches the flesh around it, watches how more clean blood seeps out. "It's not that bad. We'd better take care of that as soon as we can, though."

Shishido just flaps a hand at him and draws his legs closer to himself in a huddle, shuddering.

"My bus should be here soon," Ohtori goes on. "Come back to my place, Shishido-san. I don't want-"

The rolls of thunder drowns out the rest of his sentence, but Shishido just nods, shivering. His teeth clatter. Sitting on the ground like that, in a dirty puddle of rainwater that pools into the shelter, can't be helping him.

"Up," Ohtori says, gripping his biceps and hauling.

"Let me, I'm fine- _Choutarou_ -"

Simply disregarding the protests, Ohtori all but picks him up, sets Shishido on his feet.

"Bully," Shishido mutters, as Ohtori steadies him.

"If I have to be," Ohtori responds, smiling at the pointed eye-roll.

Then his smile wilts. Shishido looks miserable, cold and wet and disappointed, as though the color, his fire, has been leeched from him. So, this is it. No synchro. Tomorrow they have to walk onto the court and haul in a win, no matter what, or it's all over, they'll have failed the team, they'll have failed Atobe, they'll have failed _them_ , their combination.

Shishido, even though he's standing now, is shivering, bone-wracking shudders. It makes Ohtori want to pull him into his arms, hold him safe. Looking at the familiar dark eyes, Ohtori feels his nerves skitter sickeningly through his abdomen.

"Cold?" he asks and hears how his voice croaks around the word.

He's scared and being stupid, what is he thinking, why is he even thinking it in the first place? The storm is messing with his head, making him delusional, or something.

An eyebrow arches, rather pointedly. "I'm wet and dirty and tired," Shishido mutters. "I look like crap. What do you think?"

 _You don't look like crap_ , Ohtori thinks, swallowing heavily. If anything, he looks absolutely gorgeous, disheveled, skin gleaming, lips puffy from panting and being stung by the rain. 

His heart pounds. He must be crazy, he must be, and still Ohtori finds himself drawing closer, sees how his arms lift, slide around Shishido from behind.

"Er. Uhm, Ah. What. What?" Shishido's voice goes absurdly high.

Which should be more than enough reason to let him go right away, back off, and mutter something apologetic, laugh it off. Instead he pulls Shishido closer, into his embrace, his chin brushing through the wet, dark hair. Stands of it stick to his skin.

"Choutarou?" Shishido barely breathes his name. "What are you doing?"

"Body heath," Ohtori hears himself, quite stupidly, say.

_Oh, God, what's wrong with me?!_

"… body heath?" Shishido echoes, after a long, throbbing moment.

"I just," Ohtori fumbles. "You looked cold. I just-"

Against the inside of his left wrist, he feels Shishido's heartbeat, fast and hard enough Ohtori can see the pulse point in his neck jump in tandem, fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.

He's never wanted anything more in his life than _this_.

This person, his closest friend and doubles partner, this boy.

Shishido-san is a boy. Obviously. But somehow this is the biggest problem of all.

He's in love with a boy.

A boy -man, really- who turns in the circle of his arms, looks up at him. For a long, breathless moment, their gazes hold and Ohtori stands there, wanting. And he does what seems like the only thing, the only option, that is left to him: he kisses Shishido.

The kiss is wet, even though it is the merest brush of mouths. It tastes of rain and grains of sand, mud, dirt, something that pricks his lips. Shishido's breath comes out in one, long, harsh exhale, hot and uneven against Ohtori's face.

And then Ohtori's brain finally catches up, screeching bloody murder at his wayward hormones and he realizes he's _kissing_ Shishido-san in a public bus-shelter, while a typhoon is tearing the very firmament asunder. Lightning flashes, again. Again. Harsh, bright, violent. Thunder rattles the glass, shaking the sheets of rain faster down the surface.

"Uhm," Ohtori goes, pulling back. His arms are snatched away and then fall lifelessly to his sides, tingling with the memory of Shishido's body held in them.

His mouth burns, branded by the nearly nonexistent kiss, and his cheeks burn, with pure shame.

"Uhm," he goes again, panicking.

Shishido stand there, eyes dark, scorching him with their intensity, into him and right through him. But he can't read that look, doesn't think he's ever seen this one on Shishido's face, something as raw and naked as this, virulent and harsh and frighting and beautiful.

_Hate?_

_Disgust?_

_Betrayal?_

He can't tell, never before has he given Shishido-san any reason to turn such a look on him. It's alien and foreign and new. Ohtori feels his stomach turn, feels ill, as though he's free-falling.

"I. Ah, I- I'm sorry-"

"Shut up," Shishido snarls at him.

Ohtori's jaw clicks shut, his eyes grown warm. He's so angry with himself, he's ruined everything, Shishido hates him now, he's sure of it. He wants Shishido to punch him, scream at him, tell him how gross and unnatural he is, but he just stands there, glowing like a small flame, even though his hair is still dripping with water. He looks dangerous and exotic and so strange, with his eyes like chips of coal.

"Sorry-" Ohtori chokes out again.

"Choutarou," Shishido says again, low and threatening, "shut. the. fuck. up."

A hand fists into his collar, squeezing rain out of it. Shishido is going to punch him, hard, any moment now, but it doesn't come, probably won't ever come, because Shishido is kissing him.

Hard and painful and quick, too quick, before Ohtori can even think about reacting.

"Fucking finally," Shishido growls, before he pulls completely back.

Ohtori isn't really connecting the dots, he's not even really thinking, or wait, he is, it wasn't hate or disgust or betrayal but _lust_ , need, want, as strong and fierce as to match his own and now he's thinking of leaning right back in to try that again- but Shishido's index finger halts his progress, poking him in the middle of his forehead.

Ohtori blinks, confused.

A little smirk. "Your bus is here," Shishido murmurs, tilting his head towards the oncoming blur of the headlights through the rain.

Bus. Home. Shishido.

"My family is gone," he blurts. "Nobody's home. All night."

Shishido's smirk wobbles as he blinks in surprise.

A slow flush dawns on his face, dusting his cheeks and the tip of his nose and ears, and lower, too, disappearing into the collar of his jersey.

"Alright," he whispers.

***

It's the longest bus-ride home of Ohtori's life.

It's the shortest bus-ride home of Ohtori's life.

They sit side by side, carefully not touching, but the sexual tension leaps and crackles between them despite this, more real and absolutely more terrifying than even the storm buffeting the bus.

Ohtori never even began to suspect it could be like this.

Next to him, staring studiously out of the window, is Shishido-san, who's still blushing.

Even now, thinking it over, Ohtori still doesn't know what came over him, what made him do that. Not to mention that last thing he said, about there nobody being home… God, he doesn't know what to _do_. He knows what he _wants_ to do to Shishido, from leaning in to lay the most innocent sort of kiss on his cheek, to pinning him to the bed and making him cry out in pleasure.

But he's never done this before and doesn't think Shishido has either and this is all really going to fast, but it is happening and it is not stopping.

A bit like the typhoon.

Like a force of nature.

Shishido's hand is clawed into the wet fabric of his shorts, white-knuckled.

There's nobody on the bus but them, the only ones crazy enough to have been out in weather like this in the first place. The driver gave them a rather astonished look. Of course the sight of two drenched teenagers lugging around tennis equipment must've been rather random.

When he's certain there's nobody who can see, Ohtori puts his hand over Shishido's, easing his fingers out of their clutch and draws it into his lap.

Surprised, Shishido glances up at him, so quick and fast water flies out of his hair.

 _Anything you want, Shishido-san_ , Ohtori tries to tell him with his eyes, _even if that is nothing at all._

It is impossible, because Shishido can't read his mind, even though it sometimes seems as though he can. Yet somehow, he _does_ understand that single look. He's still blushing, but now he laces his fingers with Ohtori's, palm to palm. Outside there's a vicious flash of lighting, Shishido's eyes glow bright and wild for a moment and Ohtori can't help but want, more than ever.

The amount of rain they managed to lose (can't possibly call it drying up, since they're still soaked) is more than compensated for when they run up the drive of Ohtori's house. As he'd known it would be, all lights are off. The house is devoid of human life. Rain and sheer arousal makes his fingers slip and bumble with the keys, until Shishido shoulders him aside and opens the door for him.

The hallway is dark and chill.

Shishido stand in the genkan, a puddle forming around his shoes as the water streams off him. With a deafening click, the door slides shut behind him. For a moment it is too dark he can't see Shishido, but right then lightning flashes, quick, three times in succession and he knows where to look. Ohtori reaches towards him and finds outstretched fingers reaching back for him.

Suddenly the uncertainty is gone. Ohtori still doesn't know what to do, but that is inconsequential, because he does know he wants to kiss Shishido-san, properly now.

Which he does. With more care and gentleness than laying his bow against the strings of his violin, with more intent than when he creates the first brushstroke upon a bare canvass, with more passion than hitting his scud serve

He leans in, careful, giving Shishido enough time to pull away or stop him. But Shishido isn't pulling away, he lets Ohtori advance, tips his head up a little. His hand seems huge against the side of that familiar face, but it curves just right, especially when Shishido leans into it the way he's doing. They look at each other, Shishido's eyes hooded and darkening when Ohtori moves his thumb along his bottom lip, careful, and then eases his mouth to part with the barest pressure. Then he closes the distance, slow, their eyes still locked, slow enough he has the time to feel Shishido's hot gusts of breath against his own lips, before their mouth are slanting across each other.

Shishido yields, mouth falling even wider against his and the both of them stop, startled, when their tongues touch. There's a small noise, himself, Shishido, both of them, lightning or thunder, he doesn't know, doesn't care, because his eyes fall shut and their tongues slide together.

It's warm and wet. Unbelievably warm. And wet. Because the rains is still dripping down their faces, seeping into the kiss, tasting of minerals, dirt and boy, and Shishido. Who tastes like nothing he can describe, just that it is amazing and perfect and, alright, okay, a little gross, because there's sand there, too.

There's hands moving over him, shy, but warm and there, feeling him. Mapping him. Ohtori can tell how Shishido consciously puts his hand against his ribs, then drags them towards his chest, feeling him. Studying him. The wet fabric clings to Shishido's hands, moves with them, even as they pass right over his pectorals and Ohtori can't help but gasp and clutch at Shishido as they pass over his nipples, disconnecting their kiss as he shivers with pleasure.

He blushes, unable to stop it, but also worried to scare Shishido away, even though he wants nothing more for Shishido _to do that again_. Strange, he's never really thought his nipples, of all things, to be so sensitive, not when he is so hard and desperate, his cock heavy and throbbing in his shorts. But they are and Shishido does. More slow, testing, eyes reading every flicker of emotion on Ohtori's face.

The moan, though small, escapes him nonetheless. It feels good, sharply sensitive, like electricity. Shishido kisses his throat, leans closer into him and his hand drop down, fingers skim the edge of his jersey, hovering for just a moment, and then dive up and under. Ohtori gasps against Shishido's temple as the hands touch his belly, palms flat, caressing him. A thumb circles his navel, than dips into the shallow hollow.

"You feel good," Shishido murmurs.

Ohtori's hands dig into Shishido's firm shoulders, unable to do anything else but that. And then the world blanks out as those fingers tickle upwards, to his chest, his nipples, this time without any fabric hindering them.

"Oh, oh God," Ohtori knows he must be leaving bruises, but he can't help himself. Shishido is going to make him come if he-

The hands withdraw, in a lingering slide down his side, to come to a rest on his hips.

"Can we," Shishido whispers against his chest. "Go. To. Uh, your room? This is a bit weird."

"Yes," Ohtori mumbles and they all but run up the stairs, even though they nearly break their necks when Shishido decides to pull him in for another kiss right in the middle.

For a moment Ohtori thinks that this is the farthest he can go, they'll just have to do it on the stairs, because how can he possibly move away again when Shishido is pushing him into the banister, tongue curling into his mouth, and there's an answering hardness pressed up against Ohtori's thigh?

They do make it into his room, though, just how exactly Ohtori's is not sure. His jersey is gone by the time they stumble through the door, and Shishido's hand is down the front of his shorts, curled around his erection.

The bed, however, they don't make. Shishido seems to think it is too far away, or something, because he slams Ohtori up against the wall. The back of his head knocks against the wall, hard, but he doesn't feel that because Shishido is kissing him and his fingers are curled around him just right. He's slick with desire and combined with the rain, Shishido's hand slides smoothly over him, rough and warm and so amazing. Ohtori is gasping, mouth open into the kiss, Shishido's tongue curling his and looking at him, kissing and _looking_ at him through his eyelashes, so sweet and gentle and everything Ohtori's ever wanted to see there and he goes numb, and number still, Shishido's hand moving on him, up and down, thumb moving over the tip and still looking, now suckling on Ohtori's lips and then he's gone, falling, as the world shatters as bright and blinding like the lightning crashing overhead.

Shishido holds him up, still kissing his open, gasping mouth, murmuring absolutely wonderful filthy things at him as he gentles his hands up and down Ohtori's sides.

Twice he needs to clear his throat to try and speak, but eventually he manages a weak, "Shishido-san…"

Shishido chuckles, a little ruefully. "And here I was think this would get you to finally call me by my first name."

Ohtori blinks. "Aa, sorry."

They look at each other. Shishido's eyes are wide and glimmer in the dark.

"Was this too much?" he asks, not a little hoarsely. "I didn't want to-"

Kissing Shishido has solved a lot of things so far, so Ohtori does it again to shut him up. It works. Together they manage to lurch away from the wall, towards the bed, onto which they fall in a graceless tumble of arms and legs and lips clinging. The fabric is almost luxuriously soft and dry, God, it's actually _dry_ , against his skin.

Eventually he pulls back enough to kick off his shorts and underwear, which are half-down his legs anyway.Shishido sits opposite of him as he does so, one leg dangling of the bed. He's still gazing at him, as though he trying to drink him with his eyes, as though he can never get enough of the sight of him.

"Can I?" Ohtori asks, when the wet fabric is discarded.

Shishido nods, even though Ohtori hasn't really specified what. All the fear from earlier seems to have left him.

Hands shaking a little, he reaches towards the hem of Shishido's shirt. When Shishido lifts his arms, Ohtori pulls it over his head. The fabric clings at his shoulders, and the bared skin gleams. He throws the shirt away, which lands with a wet splat somewhere. Heart pounding, his lets his hand go lower, let his fingers curl into the waistband of Shishido's shorts. Who lifts his hips. Ohtori takes them off.

Shishido sits naked on the bed, still wet and muddy. And hard. Very hard.

Ohtori swallows.

It's most perfect thing he's ever seen, even though Shishido is too skinny, has knees scarred shiny, is dirty and still bleeding a little from that one wound.

"You're beautiful," Ohtori says, before he can stop himself.

Shishido goes positively _red_. Like a lobster. And he blushes all the way down.

"Choutarou!" he hisses, "That's totally la- _aaaaah_!"

He groans and chokes and stutters, while Ohtori, mouth cupped over Shishido's cock, crawls off the bed to kneel on the floor.

Shishido tastes of bitter desire -and rain, of course- and his skin is sticky and sandy where Ohtori caresses him. After the initial shock wears off, they manage to shift around so he's kneeling between Shishido's legs. He's got no idea what he's doing, only that he wants to do it, that Shishido was still hard and so damned sexy that he _had_ to. Mouth slack, moves is head up and down, careful and awkward and not sure he's doing anything good.

Then Shishido's hands fall into his hair, fingers tangling into the curly mess the rain has made of it and he moans, full-throated and unmistakably aroused.

The sight Shishido makes when he bites his own knuckled to stifle his moans when Ohtori grows bold enough to actually press his tongue up against him, is like a small victory. Right then and there, Ohtori has won the Nationals, for his part. Shishido's chest is pink from his blush, his lips swollen and shiny with saliva, his eyes pressed shut as though in grave pain. Which Ohtori knows he isn't, because the cock against his lips grows even harder and heavier, which is the first warning.

The second is Shishido urgently pulling at his hair, "S-stop, I'm going to-"

Instead of pulling back, Ohtori takes him in, as deep as he can. Which is kind of a mistake because Shishido's hips arch off the bed, thrust into his mouth as he comes hot and strange and sudden. He nearly chokes, but swallows, bitter, and grabs for Shishido's hips to keep him still.

His throat hurts, but is doesn't matter, not when Shishido sobs his name as he's coming. And the look on his face is wonderful, drawn tight with his climax and then soft and amazed, disbelieving in the wake of it.

Shishido flops back, the life quite literally sucked out of him. Ohtori takes the opportunity to make a disgusted face and then crawls onto the bed with Shishido.

Curling towards him, Shishido mumbles, "Hurt you?" His voice sounds thick and fuzzy.

"It's alright," Ohtori says, because it is, and slips his arms around him, to pull the both of them flush. Their skins sticks together tackily, but Ohtori is quite beyond caring.

Shishido is naked and warm and his and that's all that matters.

The typhoon is still going strong outside, sloshing rain against the windows insistently. Lighting illuminates the sky.

Shishido's face is against the curve of his neck, lips laying slow kisses against his throat. His body is hot and alive, but the air brushes cold against his back. It feels good, but it a recipe for a killer cold, so Ohtori drags his satiated body away long enough to get towels and some disinfectant.

  


And that's how it ends, or begins, depending how you look at it.

They sit facing on the bed, legs hooked over each other. Ohtori dabs the last sheen of wetness from Shishido's body, slow and lingering, taking the time to appreciate every dip and arch and plane of his body. He cleans the cut, smear the ointment on it. Shishido mostly gets in the way by kissing him, on his mouth with the inside of their lips catching and clinging, or on his cheek, or temple, or ear, wherever he can reach.

After, Shishido pats him dry, ruffles the towel through his hair until it must look even worse than Shishido's usually does. He takes care of the scratches on Ohtori's legs and ultimately gets distracted by the swell of Ohtori's erection.

This time, one their sides, they hold each other, kissing, touching, murmuring, towards another finish of themselves. Ohtori cries out Shishido's name when he comes -his first name- and holds the other through his own orgasm, which ends in a rush of sticky warmth between their bellies.

The sheets are soft and Shishido is a long, unbroken line of naked body against his front, breathing evenly. Both of them are drifting off into sleep. He's almost gone when he realizes to set his alarm.

They still have a match to play tomorrow.

Shishido wakes up as he shifts to stretch his arm and makes a grumbly sort of noise.

"Atobe would slaughter us," Ohtori says by way of explanation to the crabby look he gets.

"Fuck," Shishido says, burying his face against Ohtori's shoulder. "Don' wanna talk 'bout Atobe."

"Hm," Ohtori agrees, running his fingers through Shishido's now mostly dry hair. "Should I text him to say we've achieved synchro?"

He means it as a joke.

But Shishido snorts and says, "Yeah. I think we've just kinda surpassed synchro, don't you think?"

Ohtori blinks.

Yes, well, that's true.

Their connection was completely true and there. And even better? They were both lucid to realize it.

There's a small snore. Shishido's asleep again. Ohtori can only smile as his kisses his best friend's forehead.

There isn't the slightest doubt in his mind that they'll completely obliterate the opposition tomorrow.

They'll win.

It's inevitable.

  


Like a typhoon.

Like a force of nature.

_-fin-_


End file.
